


Notches

by Band007



Series: Notches Series [1]
Category: Laramie (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, gunfight, rival gunfighter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:09:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23271502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Band007/pseuds/Band007
Summary: Jess has long since learned the price of a notch. What happens when a gunfighter comes into town with the sole purpose of bringing Jess' world crashing down?
Relationships: Jess Harper & Mike Williams, Jess Harper/Slim Sherman
Series: Notches Series [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1790194
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	Notches

**Chapter 1**

It’s said a gunfighter is numbered among the most iconic figures in the Old West. Many tales have been told about how a gunfighter becomes the hero at the end of the day. In the truest sense of the title -gunslinger- it brings no kind of honor, respect or idol worship. No one respects a gunslinger; they fear him. Once a gunfighter rides into a town he brings with him one thing-the smell of death and misery.

There’s many good reasons why some men choose to strap on a gun. Some put on a gun and hang it low just to prove they’re grown up. Others, use it to fulfill vengeance, then finding it impossible to take it off after their dark mission is over, are forever at the mercy of the gun. The last kind, puts on a gun just for the sake of being too hot tempered and quick on the draw for the local Sheriff. He finds a cruel gift in the sake of being good with a gun. It’s a tragic gift for death.

The last kind of gunfighter, finds no honor or place among even his own kind, shunned by society pushed out of everytown, never to find a place to rest. When the sun sets, he’s no better than the outlaw on the run hiding from a noose. This kind of man eventually either dies in some wretched back alley-the crutch of hate-or finds his neck being fitted for a noose; watching the gallows being built in his honor. Set to die; legally.

No one truly mourns the death of a gunslinger. It’s a well known fact the wicked are never mourned or remembered, for gunslinging is a business paid only in blood.

The target resting on the rocks captured his full attention. Standing at over a hundred feet from where the tin can sat, there was a large amount of possibilities where things could go wrong. The large boulders around it could rikochet and potentially kill him; instantly or gradually. Nevertheless, he was determined to hit the can dead center in this particular situation. His occupation required him to be good with a gun, but who said he couldn’t test his skill?

Faster than a speeding bullet his hand went to the gun at his side and pulled it from the holster while he pushed the hammer back with his thumb. An instant before the gun was to hip height he fired. Two fast raps lifted the can into the air, spinning it crazily as the second bullet caught it mid-flight.

Spinning his wrist backwards, the gun was back in place in his holster before the can hit the ground. It was better shooting than more than ninety percent of gunslingers could pull off, but it still wasn’t good enough for him, not until it was perfect.

“Is this how you spent your days? Wasting ammunition?” The tall cowboy sat on his horse sneering at his back.

A callous chill spread down his back to his toes. The fingers of his right hand clenched reflexively in warning. This red haired cowboy may pay him well, but that didn’t mean he couldn't just kill the men after his job was completed.

“Do better Cowboy and we’ll talk. Until then, stay out of my business.” Even with his back turned he could tell the Cowboy had sat up straighter, a response to his deadpan challenge.

“Or what?” This man didn’t seem to have a lick of horse sense in his entire body. The red haired man seemed to have forgotten the man he had hired could leave him rotting in the dirt.

“You know.” His back may be to the man, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t drop the Cowboy before the man’s gun cleared the holster. Killing an employer wasn’t beneath him. To him, it was nothing more than another notch carved into the ivory stock of his gun.

“You oughta-'' He spun around and sent a bullet through the hand of the Cowboy.

The pale white horse who held the Cowboy, sidestepped as the smell of gunpowder and blood assaulted it’s senses, meanwhile, the Cowboy’s gun remained in his holster unfired.  _ Looks like he overestimated the cowboy. Didn’t even manage to get his hand to the gun before he was hit. _ His employer slid off the horse and onto the ground, clutching his bloody wrist in agony.

Idly, he meandered to where the Cowboy knelt in the dirt. He felt no remorse for this loudmouth if anything, it might have been better if he’d solved the towns troubles by simply killing the man. But… his gun had a price. If he killed a man without compensation that’d defeat the purpose of making a living this way. No compensation; no killing, that was his motto.

He knelt down in the dirt beside his employer and snatched his hand closer. Grimly, he observed the path his bullet had torn through the man’s flesh. There was a fair sized hole right through the joint: exactly where he aimed at. He rose and looked down at the pathetic figure at his feet.

“I warned you.”

“You’ve crippled me! You’ll pay for this!” The gunslinger scoffed darkly.

“I think I’ve ended that possibility.” Helpless, his former employer watched as he walked to the white horse the man had been riding. Gathering the reins, he swung in the saddle gracefully.

“What do you think you’re doing? You have no right to take my horse! That wasn’t part of the agreement!” The gunslingers lifeless eyes locked on the Cowboys, brokering no argument.

“I finished the job you paid me to do last night. As promised, Old Man Hastings is dead. Though, I did encounter one problem. See, that little job wasn’t as cut and dry like you wanted it to be.” Hope blazed through the Cowboy’s frame thinking how the gunslinger would pay for murder. “Oh, don’t worry, I’m not gonna hang for that crime. You are.” His hope for revenge was snuffed out like a candle in the breeze.

The Cowboy attempted to rise to his feet only to sink back to the ground, strength exhausted. Brilliant red blood spilled from his lacerated wrist, keeping him at the mercy of the gunslingers latest scheme. Watching the blood spatter on the rocks beneath him, grim reality struck, he was helpless to run from the gunslinger or anyone for that matter.

“In town, everyone thinks the person responsible has been shot, but they don't know how bad.” He nodded to the red headed Cowboy’s bleeding wrist. “That’ll convince the Sheriff and his posse. Funny as it is, that Sheriff of yours thinks you killed Hastings. He’s partially right, you are responsible. Given how respected that old man was, I expect the posse’ll be in a mood more to lynch you than give you a trial. If we traveled to your ranch we’d run right into that posse to collect my money, so I’m taking your horse.”

“Why you no good-” The Cowboy cut off hearing the sound of horses thundering towards him. “Why didn’t you kill me and get it over with?! Don’t let me swing!”

The gunslinger gave the man a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. 

“You wanted Hastings dead no matter the consequences. Now, it’s time you faced those consequences.” Spurring the white horse, he left his former employer to his fate.

Cresting a hill several hours later, the gunslinger pulled his white mount to a halt alongside another man. The horse underneath him easily responded to his commands.

“Took you long enough.” The comment was brisk but justified.

“I couldn’t let that posse find me could I?” The gunslinger straightened his stetson hat and tugged his sleeves down further on his wrists. “I don’t plan to hang for something I spent days framing another man for.”

The stranger removed an envelope of cash from his vest. “Are you sure he’s dead? You covered everything specified in the agreement?”

“Positive. He’s hanging between broad limb and bare ground as we speak. The posse didn’t bring shovels, they intend to let the buzzards have him. Not only is he dead, no one had a reason to suspect he was murdered. His reputation is tarnished and you’re free to take over his lands with no one the wiser.” The gunslinger fanned the stack of twenty dollar bills before stuffing them into his pocket.

“You’ll get the rest of the money after the last man is dead, as promised.” The gunslinger tipped his hat to the stranger and kicked the pale horse down the road leading to Laramie.

**Chapter 2**

Scott Mathews owned and operated the General Store in Laramie for over ten years. The store had been passed to him by his father. He was proud of what it stood for in his family; sacrifice, determination, and countless dreams for a better future. His father’s dreams for a better life, continuing down the line of his only son. Scotts own son was three years old and getting into everything. Some days were challenging, but they were always worth it at the end of a hard day when he held his young son in his lap, holding him close as Martha cooked dinner.

Scott swept the last pile of dirt off the boardwalk onto the street and stretched his aching back. Long hours of stocking shelves and cleaning the persistent layer of dust that covered everything had tied his lower back in knots. It’d be good when this day was finally over. 

An unexpected shortage of kerosene and three overdue deliveries weighed on his mind. To make matters worse, he still had the loan on the store, he couldn’t pay. It pained him to call in good people’s tabs when they fared no better than he did, almost as much as the idea of losing the store his father had built with his own hands.

Looking through the open door to his shop he eyed the till. Once the sales were counted today he might fare better. A small voice reminded him that slim chance was nonexistent. He was drowning in debt with no glimmer of hope in the near or extended future.

A small pair of hands grabbed onto his pant leg. Scott smiled as his young boy used him to hold himself up on his two small legs. There was nothing more in the world, save his wife, that he loved more than his beautiful son. Setting the broom against the pole closest to him, he scooped his son into his arms and smiled broadly at the giggle that melted his heart like butter.

“Scott have you seen Ben?” Martha stopped as she noticed their son was safe in his father’s arms. The cultivated instinct to worry eased as she watched Scott cling to the young boy like a lifeline while stranded in the deepest part of the ocean.

She knew the worry unsettled her husband day and night as he fretted about overdue bills piling up. Even Martha caught herself tossing and turning through the night wondering what would happen when the bank took their beloved store. True to the honorable man he was, Scott refused to call in tabs before the designated time of the year.

Scott rested his chin tenderly on Ben’s soft head, eyes roaming the busy street. Nerves calmed as he breathed in the sweet smell of his boy. Ben happily toyed with the strings on his father's apron with his small hands.

Scotts world veered and tilted as he tracked a gut wrenchingly familiar figure astride a pale white horse. A shiver snaked down his spine when the figure’s eyes raked over him and his vulnerable family. Protective instincts surged to the forefront and he shoved Ben into his wife's arms.

“Scott-” Martha protested. There wasn’t time to explain.

“Get inside Martha, now. Lock the door and not matter what happens don’t open the door for anyone, even the Sheriff.” Martha began to protest again, then she saw the look on her husband's face and she relented.

The pale horse stopped no sooner than Martha pulled the open doors of the store closed. The key scraping in the lock was a welcome sound to the fear coursing through Scott. The man swung his leg over the horse and dropped into the dirt. Swallowing the sudden dryness in his throat, Scott addressed the man.

“You’re not welcome here, Hatch.” Iron swelled in his voice as he attempted to chase the gunslinger off his doorstep. He wasn’t going to allow this man to destroy everything he’d worked for.

“Now, that’s no way to greet your brother now is it?” Hatch Matthews’ steps on the boardwalk were like the stecotto of gunshots. Cruelly, Hatch crooked his thumb to where Martha and Ben had disappeared in the safety of the store. “You never told me you’d gotten married, or I had a nephew. What else have you hidden from your own kin?”

“You stopped being part of the family once you strapped on the gun. Why are you here? Why now? Pa’s dead, isn’t that enough for you?” Scott’s words cracked like a whip exposing years of contention.

“Is there a problem here?” Scott cursed the arrival of Sheriff Cory. No one in Laramie knew his brother was a gunslinger and he wanted to keep it that way.

His focus drawn from his irritating brother Scott noticed the crowd of people who were looking at the pair, interested in who the stranger was. Mort rested nonchalantly against the banister scanning the angry posture between the brothers.

“No, Sheriff. I was just explaining to this stranger here, the store is closed today.” Sheriff Cory had to leave before he got hurt. 

Something in the way Scott Matthews stood made Mort not believe a single word the man had just uttered. The lawman in him sniffed out there was something more going on between the two men, then they were letting on. One look at the stranger was all it took to discern this man was a gunslinger. Mort’s right hand itched to touch the handle of his six shooter.

Staring down the stranger, Mort took in the man. He was entirely clothed in black from his hat to his boots. Icy, gray eyes looked out from underneath the wide brim of the strangers black hat. They carried the knowledge and mood of a callous, hunted man. This gunfighter was dangerous to himself and anyone who dared to step in his way.

“Is everything alright Scott? It’s not like you to close this early.” His comment addressed to Scott was subtle, but clear. Something between these two men was being swept under the rug and Mort wanted to know what.

“I’ve been promising Martha I’d take her on a picnic for months. I reckon it’s time I made good on my promise.” The lie tasted like vinegar on his tongue but he had no choice. Sheriff Cory was better off if he didn't know who this drifter really was.

Scott fought to keep his eyes from drifting to the left and giving away his lie. Mort studied him for a minute and then turned to the gunfighter. Clearly Scott was lying to him, but there had to be a good reason. It would come out sooner or later.

“Like the storekeeper here said, the store is closed. If you need to buy anything come back tomorrow.” The black hat bobbed and the man moved to his pale mount. “And another thing, you have until noon tomorrow to leave Laramie. Should I catch you hanging around, I’ll jail you first and ask questions later.”

Hatch forced a cocky smile onto his lifeless face and locked eyes with the Sheriff. “You and I both know Sheriff, you have no legal right to run me out Laramie. Should you try…” Hatch flicked his left hand to where his hair trigger gun rested on his right hip. “I’ll be within my rights to defend myself.” Two cold eyes returned to his brother. “I should be around your store tomorrow, buying those supplies.”

Mort waited until Hatch was entering the Hotel before he posed his question to the shaken storekeeper.

“Who is that Scott? Why do you seem to know each other?”

“I think he said his name was Hatch. That gun he carries says enough about how he earns money.” Matthews grasped the handle of his broom and released the strings of his apron folding it neatly over his right arm.

“Forgive me for being blunt, but why did you close your store when he came up to you?” Mort was fishing for information Scott wasn’t willing to give.

“Like I said before, I have a picnic to go to. If you have any more reservations just chalk it up to the fact I hate gunslingers-they’re bad for business. Now if you’ll excuse me…” Scott rapped on the front door and disappeared through the narrow opening Martha made.

“Breath out easy, that’s it. Now remember to squeeze, not jerk.” Slim sat in the shade on an old bucket against the barn mending a harness as he listened to the instructions Jess was giving Mike.

Jess’ rifle was snugly fit against Mike’s small shoulder as he sighted in a tin can set on an old log. The curtain stirred from the window in the kitchen as Daisy nervously watched Jess teach Mike to shoot. She’d argued with Slim and Jess for hours last night, pleading for them not to teach Mike how to handle a firearm. While she had avidly argued her point Mike was too young, Daisy understood the need for Mike to protect himself. Shooting wasn’t a parlor trick in the West, it was a necessity to survive.

“Now one last time before you start shooting, what’s the most important thing when firing a gun?” Jess’ hand was on Mike’s small shoulder correcting the boy’s stance.

“To hit the target.” Mike’s voice was barely audible over his tense concentration looking down the barrel.

“When?” Jess’ question was short and to the point.

“The first time.”

“Why?”

“Because I might not get a second chance.” Jess pulled the stock of the gun further into Mike's shoulder so the boy wouldn’t be hurt by the kick.

“That’s right, most firefights are won in the first few shots. You’ll never have enough ammunition to spend hours flinging lead at each other. Every shot needs to be worth it. We never waste ammunition. Ammo is precious, once you spend it all in a firefight, you’re vulnerable.” Mike nodded slightly to Jess’ words. Satisfied Mike understood, Jess took a half step back. “How many bullets are in the gun?”

“Five in the clip and none in the chamber.”

“Alright you’re ready, what target are you shooting at?” Mike stalled at Jess’ question about the target. The boy clearly saw there was only one target out in the open. Shrugging off his confusion, Mike answered back confidently.

“The can on the log.” Mike was anxious to fire at his target and waited nervously for Jess to let him get to the ‘fun part’.

“Put a bullet in the chamber.” Mike pushed the lever on the rifle down and snapped it back up without removing the gun from his shoulder.

“Fire when you’re ready.”

Mike didn’t need to be told twice. Taking a deep breath he pushed the air out as he brought the sights straight down onto the middle of the can. Waiting a millisecond for all the air to be released from his lungs, he fired.

Dread sank in the pit of his stomach as he shot went wild by two inches, missing the can completely and shattering a group of pebbles to the far left of his intended target. A cloud of dust billowed high in the air dispersing with the help of the wind. Disappointed, Mike lowered the muzzle to the dirt at his feet like Jess had shown him and waited for his mentor to say something.

“What’d I do wrong?” His young voice resounded with misery.

“Not hitting the target wasn’t what you did wrong.” Confused at Jess’ comment, Mike turned around and offered the heavy gun back. “How many targets were set up Mike?” Jess held the gun upwards and checked the chamber to make sure the spent casing was filling the space and not a live round.

“One, the can on the log.” Slim looked up at Mike’s answer and scanned the shooting range he and Jess had set up early this morning after the stage had left.

Jess stepped in front of the sad boy and raised the gun. Pulling the lever into position he sighted and fired two times. Each shot sent the hidden targets swirling backwards before gravity brought them to the ground. Mike looked even more glum as he realized his biggest mistake-not paying attention to his surroundings.

Jess pumped the lever three more times ejecting the bullets from his gun. Then he set the gun down and pocketed his brass. Two small boots crouched in the dirt and picked out the remaining live bullets coated in fine dirt. Using his shirt to clean off the bullets Mike offered them to Jess in silence, gnawing on his mistakes. He’d wanted everything to be perfect, but nothing had gone his way.

“What was your biggest mistake Tiger?” The tone was gentle, non judgemental, yet it still cut Mike to the core.

Dropping his gaze to his boots, Mike shamefully answered. “I missed how many targets there were. I shot the target without seeing what was surrounding it. I’m sorry Jess.”

“I’m glad to hear that, Mike. Shooting can seem fun to you, but you have to understand there’s more to it than finding a target and pulling the trigger. Once you pull that trigger, you can never call that shot back.” Placing a hand under Mike’s chin he forced the youngin’ to look him in the eyes. “I never told you how many targets there were because I wanted you to learn this lesson in the best way, a way you’d never forget. My way may seem cruel, but this way you'd never forget it. You always have to know what’s around you at all times.” Jess playfully scruffed Mike’s hair to show the boy he wasn’t mad.

Slim had been wary of Jess’ method from the beginning. It was hard to teach a young boy about guns when at his age they looked fun. By scaring him slightly, he’d broke the barrier between fun and reality. Mike knew enough about gunfights to understand the hints Jess had been dropping by shooting the hidden cans. If the boy didn’t pay enough attention he could be hurt or worse, killed.

“Come on Tiger, lets try it again.” Mike beamed as Jess placed the rifle in the boys hands and pulled five fresh bullets out of his pocket and pointed to a group of cans perched to the boys left. “You’ve got the breathing right, but you’re still jerking the trigger. Once you get that worked out, you’ll be the best marksman this side of the Mississippi.”

Slim smiled as Jess showed Mike how to load the gun, before fitting the stock to the young boys shoulder to try again. Jess had a way to get through to Mike without crushing the youngsters spirit. The demonstration with the cans had effectively helped Mike understand shooting the rifle wasn’t for play anymore. With Mike past his tenth birthday, it was time he took a step into the real world.

“He has a way with Mike doesn’t he?” Lost in his thoughts, he failed to notice Daisy beside him. “I’ll admit, the little stunt Jess pulled almost scared me into an early grave.”

“Ah Daisy, Jess did it for Mike’s own good. It may have seemed a bit reckless, but it stopped Mike from potentially hurting someone with his new skill. This way, anytime Mike takes a shot, his first instinct will be to look around, making sure he doesn’t miss anything. Jess made his point known without leaving any room for error. Mike will never question the choice to second guess where he’s shooting before he pulls the trigger.” Sharp rifle shots echoed around the yard ceased for cheers as two cans were knocked down. “This way Mike knows what a gun can do while never breaking his spirit.”

“How in the world do you two come up with these things?” Daisy pressed a hand to her chest.

“As I recall, my Pa taught me the exact same lesson when I was learning how to use a gun.” Slim gave a short tug on his project, making sure his stitches stayed in place. “I’ll admit, it was a lesson I learned well. A lot of people think the fault lies in the gun when someone is hurt by a firearm, but they’re wrong. A gun’s only as good or bad as the person using it. If you teach a man to use a gun for the right reasons-the right way- it’s a tool, not a weapon of destruction.” Slim put his mended harness down and stood.

“Do you think Jess’ father taught him the same lesson? It seems learning how to use a gun would come from the father.” Slim rubbed his chin as he studied the back of his partner.

“I don’t think Jess’ father ever taught him, that’s why doing this for Mike means so much to Jess.” It was hard to imagine what Jess’ hard-knocks childhood would have been like. His partner never dwelled much on where he came from, at least not too willingly. Most of what Slim knew about Jess’ childhood had been hardwon-fragments put together-by sitting at his partners bedside whilst fevers and nightmares raged.

“He’s giving Mike a childhood he never lived.” Daisy’s words were heartbreakingly true. “Tell Jess and Mike to come inside for a slice of pie when they’re ready.”

“Am I invited?” Slim teased and flinched to dodge a swat by Daisy’s kitchen towel.

“Sometimes I don’t know who’s the biggest child around here. Mike, Jess, or You. One more comment and I’ve half a mind to make you eat cold dinner for the next week.” Daisy’s reprimand carried humor as she twisted the towel around her hand.

Calling the pair on the far side of the yard, Slim headed to the house. He could already taste the sweet apple pie, every step bringing him closer to the heavenly smells emanating from the kitchen.

**Chapter 3**

Scott pulled the curtain back that overlooked the street and stared at the shape of his brother across the street. He hadn’t seen Hatch since his older brother left on his eighteenth birthday headed for parts unknown. Hatch had been stubborn and determined to forge his own path-any path-that didn’t include stocking shelves and constantly sweeping dirty floors.

Part of him still wished his brother had changed in the years he’d left for parts unknown. It wasn’t a good feeling to see dime novels and newspaper headlines telling about how many men his brother had killed. As a young boy, the idea of having a well known brother seemed like fun until his father had given him a 'talking’ to. 

All too soon, Hatch had become a blemish on the Matthews name. Year after year, he’d dreamed of his brother coming home to stay where they could be as close as they were as children again. Such a fantasy had long since left him.

The childish part of him still wished that maybe, just maybe, Hatch was ready to be a good person putting his anger and high dreams aside. That small hope scared him the most. One look at his brother told Scott his once beloved brother had drifted far away from the innocent boy he used to be.

Scott still wanted an older brother to dream with and love, but all he had was a killer. Hatch leaving had broken his father. Why was Hatch in Laramie now? He had made it clear when he left before he never wanted to see the streets of Laramie. So why return? His brother certainly wasn’t here to visit family so that meant… Scott visibly shook as the realization leaked through his core. Who was his brother’s target?

“Everything looks quiet. Are you sure this Hatch intended to stay?” Slim questioned.

“He’s here, otherwise why would he have fought me so hard to stick around if he never intended to?” Mort chewed his bottom lip, a nervous habit. “I’m not letting me guard down until I’m sure Hatch has left.”

Mort had rode to the Ranch late in the day asking Slim--not Jess--come fill in as his deputy for several days. Slim didn’t have to ask Mort why he refused Jess’ offer to help him out as deputy--there was already one too many gunfighters in town-- Mort didn’t need anymore. 

Clearly, Jess itched to come into town and Slim had wasted no time adding multiple jobs onto Jess’ already full plate. He didn’t want Jess in town risking his life in a gunfight, recklessly. He cared about that mule-headed, quick on the draw, maverick. Slim already had a partner who suited him just fine, he wasn’t aiming to look for another.

“You know if Hatch is here for a job or just passing through?” Inwardly, Slim hoped Mort would tell him what he wanted to hear.

Unfortunately, he had no such luck. “He never mentioned why he rode into town, but he paid the clerk at the Hotel for an entire week. As much as I hate to say it, Hatch is here in Laramie to kill someone.” Mort threaded a strip of cloth through the bottom of his cleaning rod and proceeded to clean his favorite rifle.

“Who would you suppose he’s here for?” Mort grunted and tipped the bottle of oil over on an old rag. Once a generous amount covered the rag and pushed the stopper back on the bottle and turned his ministrations to the gun on the desk.

“I wouldn’t be in the business to know every skeleton in each house. Anyone can have enemies who want them dead. Take what happened to you years ago. An old grudge paid a well feared gunfighter to kill you without you even knowing someone wanted you dead. No sir, it could be anyone.”

Slim’s thoughts turned to his partner. Jess had gained a lot of enemies over the years not to mention trigger happy gunslingers looking to make a name by killing Jess Harper. His gut churned, thinking how likely it was Hatch could be in Laramie for the sole purpose of shooting his partner. 

Slim’s mind drifted to forbidden thoughts and images of his friend falling to the ground, dead at the hand of this cocky drifter. Mentally, he forced himself to think of something different. Jess had been forced into plenty of gunfights over the years and he’d always come out on top. Wickedly, his mind added a few more words that embodied every fear--Jess could still die, next time. No! He couldn’t-wouldn’t-bury a partner.

Abruptly he stood, shaking off his dark musings and stared out the window. Darkness was falling, but hadn’t completely arrived, making distorted shadows that played with a man's imagination.

Behind the desk, Mort set the soiled rag down and noted the anxious condition of his blond friend. Slim paced back and forth and if he was waiting for something bad to happen. Jess had acted like a kicked puppy when he’d rode to the ranch late in the afternoon and requested Slim. Taking Slim away from the ranch had raised questions, but Mort had refused to answer them directly.

Jess’ reputation spoke for itself when it came to how well the man could handle a gun. Yet, something about this new stranger in town made Mort hesitate to put his friend in the line of fire, or in town for that matter. Swiftly, he gathered up his rags, oil, and cleaning rod and headed for the drawers under the gun cabinet. Once they were stowed, Mort was nearly knocked over by Slim, continuing his agitated pacing.

“Will you at least sit down?! You’re gonna wear a hole right through that floor with all this pacing!” Mort gently admonished.

Slim’s movements stalled. “I’m sorry Mort. It’s just-” Slim slid a chair closer and sat down. “How do you two ever handle sitting still?”

A small smile quirked the edge of Mort's mouth. “I think you’ve been spending too much time with Jess. He’s the one who we have to tie down just to get some sleep.”

Chuckling, Slim stretched out his long legs, propping them on the edge of Mort’s desk. From the second Jess’ boots touched the dirt at the Sherman Ranch, the dark haired maverick always needed to be doing something, somewhere. There was never a dull moment with Jess around. Perhaps Jess’ impulsiveness had rubbed off on him after all.

“Don’t worry about Hatch. I’ve learned gunfighters tend to draw out their business, just for the sake of having the entire town wound up tighter than a corkscrew. The edgier you are, the easier it is for him to do his job.” Mort snapped the chamber of his rifle closed and pulled a box of shells out of a hidden drawer.

Slim rubbed his thumb over his chin, mulling over Mort’s words. It’s easier to claim self defense when your target was reaching at every corner for a gun. Fear was a gunfighter's best weapon. Vaguely, he wondered how many people felt the same way towards Jess.

Admittedly, he thought the same way himself when he’d attempted to push Jess off his ranch. His partner had exuded confidence as he’d stretched comfortably under the pines directly under the no trespassing sign. Instantly taking in the tie down holster and stubborn defiance, Slim had wanted nothing more than to get the young gunslick out of Laramie fast as possible.

In fact, Slim would have done anything to make sure Jess Harper stayed as far away as humanly possible. Not for the first time, Slim came to terms how close he had come to pushing the man he saw now as a brother, far away. He would have lost the ranch if Jess hadn’t agreed to take him up on his offer to hire on at the ranch.

It was dumb luck Jess chose to stop over at the relay station long ago. Not to mention, all the other times things had come between him and Jess in such a way, their partnership would have ended. Andy would never have forgave him for pushing Jess away.

Jess Harper had become part of the heart that lived at the Sherman Ranch. Every good thing Slim had was because of Jess. Call him sentimental, but he owed Jess more than a few simple words could express.

Andy had been quick to see the good in Jess, even if all Slim had seen was the low holster. The prospect of having a hired gun anywhere around Andy had scared Slim more than he’d liked to admit. Gunslingers weren’t people you messed around with or got friendly to. It was strange how quickly his misgivings had disappeared after Jess had fought to protect Andy that first day at the relay station.

If a man looked at the hard deadly exterior of his partner, he’d never have seen the unwavering spirit underneath. Jess would never be the kind of person to open himself up to anyone who cared to ask questions. He was like an onion. You have to peel him back a layer at a time. Maybe that was what Mort was trying to say.

It wasn’t that Mort and Jess knew how to sit still longer, waiting for the inevitable, it was the simple fact they understood how to deal with gunfighters because they knew what made them tick. Finally finding calm, Slim settled in his chair comfortably. If Hatch was looking to cause a ruckus, he’d be waiting for him. He’d be ready should it take several hours or several weeks.

**Chapter 4**

Three days passed without much excitement, and for that Mort and Slim were grateful. Hatch seemed content to bask in the early morning sun and then rest in the shade during the heat of the day. The thought Hatch was seemingly content was just a slip of the tongue. The gunman's eyes scoured the streets day after day as if he was looking for someone. Yet, after being repeatedly pestered by questions of who he was here for, Hatch always managed to weasel his way out of it.

The news of Hatch’s arrival had spread like wildfire through Laramie and the neighboring towns. The stage line started demanding shotgun riders accompanying every stage that rolled through, driven by fear of outlaw gangs hiding near Laramie looking to help themselves to an easy payday. 

Knowing Jess’ tendency to ride shotgun, Slim had nervously watched every stage coming through town. After enough days of Curly Hastings riding shotgun, Slim relaxed. With all the work Slim had asked Jess to do, his partner would be too busy to come into town.

Mort had been occupied attempting to get more information out of Scott Matthews. Of anyone in Laramie, Scott was the scardest. All it took was someone to sneeze and Scott was reaching for a gun. It was hard to guess what was going on between the storekeeper and Hatch, but it didn’t look like it’d end well. Plainly, Scott knew more about Hatch than he was willing to admit. That fact alone was disturbing.

In less than a night, Laramie had gone from a peaceful happy town to a walking ghost town, if that was possible. The Cafe, Saloon, and general store closed earlier than normal every night. Slim was willing to bet the only reason Watt Faulkner was chomping at the bit, having to put up with Hatch daily. 

No one came into town unless they had to, and if they did, they left quickly. Never before had Slim seen such a husk of a town in his life. It felt like the entire town was walking on eggshells, waiting for the worst to come. 

Blinds and shutters blocked the sunlight from streaming into every house and business. Droves of people demanded Mort run the gunslinger out of town as soon as possible, whatever the expense. Yes sir, the town was wound up tighter than a corkscrew.

As predicted, Hatch was letting the fear of his presence entice fear in the community. It worked a little too well. In less than three days Hatch had come close to almost killing three men, haunted by their own ghosts and convinced the day of reckoning had arrived.

The confrontation had been tense to say the least but uneventful. What puzzled Slim the most was Hatch had backed out of three challenges. It was obvious Hatch had a right to draw and kill all three men but he didn’t. All he did was send the men out the door with their tails between their legs and hadn’t given it a second thought.

It wasn’t that Slim condoned Hatch’s profession, it was just that, men like Hatch tend to shoot first and ask questions later. So what had stopped him? Was he afraid to kill another man, or making a statement? Whatever the dark haired man’s motives were, Slim sure wasn’t sleeping any deeper at night.

“Hot day ain’t it?” Slim gazed down the town's current source of fear.

Hatch wasn’t a particularly large man in stature, but he made up for it in reputation. Guarded gray eyes under a wide black hat brim made it hard to read what the gunslinger was thinking. A well oiled gun rested on the man's right hip accentuating his cruel business. It was hard to think how a gun in this man’s hand could cause so much pain.

Hundreds of men wore a gun. Many knew how to use it well enough to ensure their own safety and the safety of their family. These were men who Slim walked down the street with and never gave a second glance. What was so different between the gun on this man’s hip compared to the hundreds of other guns?

“Nah, this ain’t too bad. I’ve learned to enjoy the good weather while it lasts.” Slim gazed up at the bright, clear sky above him. 

He couldn’t recall all the days in the winter where he’d dreamed of what it felt like to feel the sun heat on him. Compared to the below zero temperatures he was used to fighting for the last six months warmth was heaven. Even if it felt like his brain was roasting inside his skull.

“Sure is a nice town you got.” Hatch fell into step with Slim walking down the street.

“We do, and that’s the way we want to keep it.” A part of him cringed at his open challenge.

His impulsiveness may cause him his life but he wanted to show Hatch he wasn’t afraid of him. If he took away the fear, Hatch was nothing more than another man wearing a gun.  _ A man who was one of the fastest draws in the Country and could kill anyone if he set his mind to it- _ that little annoying voice in his head whispered. With no way to take the words back, Slim watched Hatch out of the corner of his eye.

Walking down mainstreet mid day wasn’t the most interesting thing to watch, but walking down the street with a feared gunslinger beside you did. Multiple heads turned and stared at the black clad man to Slim’s right. Whispers and fingers were pointed in his direction as suspicion began to turn the town against him.

For what? Not being able to shake off a sticky gunfighter who refused to take the hint Slim wasn’t interested in his company? At his side, Hatch continued to keep pace with Slim and weaved around barrels and crates piled outside businesses. The man failed to answer the open challenge and instead seemed to do anything to not leave.

Tired of the cat and mouse game, Slim stopped abruptly. “Is there a reason why you refuse to let me walk down the street in peace? Why are you in Laramie Hatch?” 

You could have sworn the thermometer dropped several degrees by Slim’s cold words. It was about time someone got to the heart of the matter instead of beating around it. The question was enough to make a full grown man flinch.

“I find it strange a question like that coming from you. You see, I may not have been in Laramie for very long but I get the distinct feeling you should be somewhere else? Your name is Slim Sherman. You own a small ranch a couple miles outside of town. This ranch also serves as a Stage Stop for the Overland Stage Company. You have a young brother, Andy who is currently at school.” Grey eyes calculated the thinning lips of the rancher. “Do I have your attention?”

Never in Slim’s wildest dreams would he have thought a man like this would know this much about him. While his life wasn’t secretive, there was no way this gunslinger knew so much about him. A gunfighter poking into Slim was one thing but the idea he brought Andy up as well…

“So is that it? You being here has something to do with me?” Slim studied the impassive face trying to find some shred of evidence that told him more.

“If I am?” Nothing. There was no waver in his voice, no shift of the eyes. Not even a flicker of emotion in the man's lifeless face. Slim had to admit, Hatch seemed to be good at his job. Perhaps a little too good for comfort.

“If you are, I have a right to know.” Slim slipped his thumb between his pants and gun belt. He was definitely throwing all caution in the wind.

“Hmmm.” Hatch lifted his hat, smoothed his hair, and put the hat back on. The man's eyes raked up and down Slim, taking in every shred of evidence. “You have guts, that’s more than I can say for more than half the people in this town. For that… I’ll tell you the truth. Honestly, I’m not here for you or the Sheriff.”

“That still doesn’t say much. All you’ve done is count out two people in Laramie that you’re not here to kill.” Sarcasm leaked through his words. “Is it anyone I know?”

The gunfighter turned his back to Slim. “It’s a small town, everyone knows everyone.”

“Is that a morbid yes or no?” He stepped closer to the black clad man.

“You decide.” Slim bit his lip, fighting the urge to growl in frustration. Hatch was starting to ride on his nerves.

**Chapter 5**

“Hey Jess! Can I shoot tonight?” Mike exclaimed, jumping on a bucket so he could look over the stall.

Jess rubbed his hand down Twister’s fore leg and frowned. There was definitely some heat in the left fetlock. The morning stage had come through leaving him caring for a lame horse, adding to his already long list of tasks. There was more to get done than there was enough daylight for. Tipping his hat back he looked up at an overexcited Mike.

“Are the horses curried and fed?” Mike bobbed his head furiously. “What about your school work?”

“Yep! I brought extra wood in for Aunt Daisy and collected all the eggs from the coop.”

“Did you take a bath?” Fighting to keep a serious face, he scooped a bucket up off the straw strewn floor.

“Ah Jess! It ain’t even Sunday!” Mike stepped off his pedestal and walked into the stall. Idly, he rubbed Twister's mane between his fingers. “Please?”

Jess’ heart was melting--not that he wanted Mike to know. Passing the bucket to Mike, he gestured to the grain bin. Taking the bucket, Mike scooped grain into the bucket and returned, getting Twister’s attention. Happily munching on his dinner, Twister filled the tense silence as the boy waited for his answer.

“I don’t know Mike. I’ve got a lot to do and with Slim gone, we’re short handed around here. I’m afraid I don’t have the time to shoot with you today.” Mike visibly wilted. The boy wanted nothing more than to spend time with him, but there just wasn’t time. “Tell you what... when Slim gets back how about we let him do all the work around here and I’ll take you shooting down at the river. How’s that sound?”

His offering was well meant, but Mike couldn’t force the feeling it was a consolation prize from his head. Glumly, Mike nodded his head and shuffled to his pony. He hated it when Jess had other things to do.

Step by step, Mike began to harness his pony, Sugar. Sugar had been a Christmas present two years ago after he was old enough to travel to school by himself. The normal excitement at which he went about his normal chores was gone today. He didn’t feel like doing it quickly, not after Jess turned him down.

Heavy footsteps behind him signaled Jess had come closer. “I’m sorry Tiger. I know you got your heart set on shootin’ tonight.” Mike could tell Jess was waiting for him to answer, but couldn’t find the words. A knot grew in the base of his throat and he desperately worked to tamp down the emotions. He was not going to let Jess see him cry! “Mike.”

A gentle yet firm hand turned the boy around. Mike brought his eyes to meet his mentors and then dropped them to the floor. He was being childish. Aunt Daisy would give him a talkin’ to about being grown up. He wasn’t sure what that all meant, but he was certain crying when he didn’t get his way was at the top of that list. Mike hiccuped.

“Oh, Mike.” Jess knelt down and took the boys face in his hands. “Mike you have to understand that sometimes things don’t go the way we want them to. Things get in the way where we can’t always do what we want to when we want to do them.”

“Like chores?” Jess chuckled and nodded.

“Yes, like chores. Just like you have to do chores before you go to school or run off to play with your friends, I have things Slim needs me to do here before I can go have fun.” Releasing the boy, he ruffled his hair. “Even when things get it the way, it doesn’t mean I don’t care about you. Believe me, I do care and want to give you everything I can. If you knew how much I’d love to go shoot with you today, Daisy’d sure come after us with that spoon of her’s. Come to think of it, she certainly knows how to use it. I’ll admit I know first hand. ”

Mike squealed in laughter as he envisioned the thought. Suddenly his heart wasn’t so heavy anymore. The anger and hurt he had eased. The young boy threw his arms around Jess.

Tears pricked Jess’ eyes as the small arms embraced him. How was it that a person so small could hold his heart so completely? With one small gesture Mike effectively melted away the layers of protection he’d shielded his heart with year after year.

“Now Tiger, we best be getting you all saddled up and headed off to school. If you were late, Daisy really would come after us.” Playfully swatting Mike’s back pockets, Jess helped Sugar get saddled up.

Jess pushed the lever of the pump down and frowned. Water leaked from the where the connecting rod fit through the pump head. Pushing the lever down again, water spilled over once again, drenching his pants and boots. Slim didn’t want him riding into town but he had no choice. He had to talk to the blacksmith about that pump before the problem got worse.

“Daisy!” Hearing her name called she came to the kitchen door. “This pump needs some parts before we have water all over the place! I’m riding into town, need anything?”

“Could you stop by the store and bring me some white thread? I’m going to need more than I expected for Sally Mills wedding dress.”

“Sure thing Daisy.” Jess headed for the barn.

“Oh, Jess! Since you’re leaving so late in the day, bring Mike home from school will you? It’d mean so much to him. Also…” Daisy disappeared for a moment and reappeared with the cloth covered bundle. “Stop by and give this to Slim will you?”

Taking the bundle, Jess smelt the sweet scent of freshly baked bread. “You don’t happen to have more of this for dinner do ya?” Daisy laughed.

“I promise you’ll get your fill at dinner. Now you better get going, if you intend to reach town before school lets out.” Jess tipped his hat and went to saddle up Traveler.

A couple yards out of the yard, Jess gave Traveler his head. Eagerly, the bay happily fell into a clipped canter. Being cooped up since Slim left, Traveler burned through pent up energy. Before he knew it, Jess was reaching the outskirts of town.

The once busy streets of Laramie were bare. Not a single soul moved up and down the boardwalk. Passing the barber shop, he caught movement as someone had pulled the curtain back and then released it. The hair on the back of his head prickled at how gloomy the town seemed. What had made them this way? Where was Mort?

Instead of continuing to the blacksmith’s shop, he adjusted his course for Mort’s office. Reaching the hitching post, he tied Traveler up and went to the door.

“Jess? What are you doing here?” Mort greeted him at the gun cabinet.

“What am I doing here? What’s happened to this place, it’s like death warmed over? All the shops that could be closed are, and the streets are completely bare. I’d say something’s going on here you don’t want me to know about.”

Mort sighed and then spoke. “A gunfighter by the name of Hatch came into town a few days ago. Hatch has a….reputation that’s made people leery. No one’s been shot yet, but everyone won’t settle down until Hatch is gone one way or another.”

“Why haven’t you run him out already?” Mort shook his head at Jess’ question.

“It isn’t that easy, Jess. Hatch isn’t like some range-rat who’s here looking for trouble. He has a reputation and a reason to stay. Not only that, Hatch does his job so well there’s never enough evidence to nail him with a crime or run him out of town. No posters or warnings are ever sent out about him because no one ever knows where he’s headed after he rides out.” Jess fingered the gun on his hip. “He’s in the clear, it all boils down to the fact my hands are tied. I’ve already done what I can, all I can do is wait.”

Jess looked around. “Where’s Slim?”

“He went out about fifteen minutes ago to talk to Scott Matthews. Speaking of Slim, he should’ve been back by now.” Mort went for the door only for Jess to stop him. “Jess?”

“Stay here, I’ll go find Slim.” Yanking open the door, Jess stepped out in the sunlight.

Hatch Matthews sat in the hard chair facing the street over Laramie, cleaning his gun. Using the rag in his hand he meticulously oiled and polished the hair trigger gun he clutched. His eyes drifted to the family store.

Scott and he used to be close years ago. As young boys they’d grown a deep bond with each other. Father was a hard man when it came to how the household was run. Everything had to be done his way and no way else. Maybe the old man meant well once, but he’d grated on his nerves. The smallest infractions had escalated to full hate, on both sides.

Young Scott was eager to gain his brothers love and attention. Hatch had undoubtedly enjoyed that trait about his brother. It was fun as a young man to have a shadow dodging his footsteps. Wherever he went, Scott was only seconds away constantly nagging him with endless questions.

Hatch pushed the daydreams from his head. Laramie was softening him. His brother was softening his defenses. He tossed the rag aside and dug a pocket knife from his vest pocket. Flicking the blade open, he made two quick notches in the smooth ivory stock of his gun. His objective completed, he thumbed the dozens of notches marked on the gun. As the soft pad of his thumb roamed over the marks he felt cold reality return.

Icy indifference spread from his head to his feet. They always reminded him of who he was. What he was. He was a gunfighter, a man who hired out his...services for those who are willing to pay him handsomely.

It was his job to take a step away from society. Fine citizens wanted nothing to do with the likes of him. He spun the revolver into its holster and stared down the General Store across the street. He was going to do everything possible to make sure he never forgot what he was. Should that mean he was forced to cut all ties to ensure his place and occupation.

**Chapter 6**

Jess fought to rein in his temper as he walked down the street looking for Slim. Why had Slim and Mort deliberately kept him from coming into town? Didn't they trust him enough to let him make his own decisions about his life?

Sure he had a reputation as a fast gun and that made it where a lot of people would look to settle a score. Admittedly, his temper had a tendency to run away with him, but that still didn't give them the right to keep this from him. They were treating him like a child who had no self-control. They might mean well but it didn't feel right for Slim to be in the line of fire for him. Slim couldn't stand up against a gunfighter and win. Mort should never have asked Slim to fill in for him as a deputy.

A stranger dressed in black stepped out of the Hotel and watched him come closer. The tied down holster on the man's right hip filled in the blanks. This had to be Hatch, the gunfighter Mort had talked about. The fingers of Jess' right hand itched in anticipation as he waited for Hatch to make his move. This man was a threat to him, to all who he cared about. It didn't matter what happened next so long as they were safe.

"You must be Harper." Hatch's voice drifted to him, stopping Jess in his tracks.

"And you're Hatch. The gunfighter that's been hanging around Laramie for the last few days. I'll give you credit, you certainly know how to clear the streets." The cold expression on Hatch's face tightened. "I hear Mort Cory tried to run you out, too bad he didn't."

"Jess!" Slim hurried down the street, taking in the perfect stances of the two men bent on killing each other in the middle of the street.

Desolation impacted Slim's heart like a sucker punch. This was the day he always dreaded. Jess may be a hot-head, but he knew better than to go around town poking other gunfighters hoping they'd draw. Never had Jess been so reckless with his life before, gambling with fate like he was now. His odds were no better than flipping a coin and seeing if he died or not. Hatch was bringing out something in Jess that had receded into the background ever since he came to work at the Sherman Ranch.

"Stay out of this Slim!" Jess' voice snapped like a barbed whip as he stared down the black-clad man in front of him. "The Sheriff may not have succeeded in running you out, but I will. This is my warning; get out of Laramie in less than an hour."

"Or what?" Some semblance of a cocky expression slithered over Hatch's face. The man was determined to push Jess as far as he could without actually crossing the line. The two were testing each other's breaking points.

"Or I sent you out of Laramie strapped in a saddle, or nailed inside a pine box. Take your pick." To add to his threat Jess flexed his gun hand, fully prepared to draw, no matter the consequences.

From across the street Slim could see Hatch's hackles rise. Well I'll be...he thought, he'd been trying to get under the man's skin for three days and here Jess does it in less than five minutes. Slim nerves stretched to the breaking point when Hatch cooly removed the trigger loop from his gun, causing Jess to do the same.

"You see Harper, an old friend was asking about you in Yuma. Word was you stepped out of the game, went ranching instead." The muscle in Jess' cheek twitched at the insult. The insult wasn't directed to Jess as much as it was Slim. Hatch was using Jess' partnership with Slim against him, and he was falling for it. "Imagine, a gunfighter, a killer, ranching. A lot of gunfighters have been interested in you Jess. Once a man with a reputation puts the gun down to go ranching, he gets a little out of practice, you know what I mean? For someone as feared as you, you sure are weak in who you work with."

Mort arrived on scene with a double barreled shotgun broke over his arm. He must have noticed what was going on and decided this was his chance to run Hatch out once and for all. Emotions churned in Slim's gut after Hatch openly admitted he was here for Jess.

"In all honesty, it would have been so easy to settle this before you came into town." The black hat bobbed in the general direction of Mort and Slim. "You call them your friends? Oh, please! You owe me for not shooting them when I had the chance."

Jess was boiling over with anger. "Save your speech Hatch! We both know why you didn't. You can't! You have your own reputation to think about! At least mine states I get the job done outright! All I've heard is you hide behind the fact you've killed somebody. You set them up to die so you won't get your hands dirty! Is that the reputation you want?" Slim was certain Jess was going to draw right then, but something changed in Jess he couldn't believe.

One instant Jess' hackles were raised and the next all the anger drained out of him. Jess reached down with his gloved hand and returned the loop over the trigger of his gun. Puzzled, Slim shook his head. What just happened? His partner was as cool as a cucumber, defenseless, standing ten paces away from a man who intended to kill him. It didn't make sense.

Not knowing what Jess was up to, Slim removed the trigger loop from his own gun. There may be a rule about cutting into another man's fight, but he disregarded it. Jess would be happy with him after words, but at least he'd still be alive to complain. Slim caught Hatch's gaze flick over to him and Mort for a millisecond before returning to Jess.

"That's who you are Hatch. A coward. That’s the only way you do your job, is by shooting a man in the back and blaming it on someone else." Jess spun on his heel and put his back to the gunfighter. "Go on do it! This is what you came for, don't back out now! You have a job to finish remember! Do it! Show them what kind of a man you are!"

Hatch reached for his gun and a shot sounded.

**Chapter 7**

How could he have been so reckless?

Why did everything seem to go wrong all at once leaving him to pick up the pieces? A half of a second, that was all it took... 

The bat of an eye...a millisecond really...the time it took for steely reflexes to act...A sliver of time when a hand reached for the gun...the flip of a coin in the face of fate.

Seeking to find an outlet for the plethora of emotions raged through him, he stood. Hands clenched at his side as his legs carried him around the small room. Dusty boots shook themselves of dirt onto the once clean floor as he worked out his desperation. A ragged breath was masked by the rattle of the spurs on the wooden floor. The soft  _ tick _ ,  _ tick _ ,  _ tick _ with every pace fell in sync with the rhythmic sounds of the grandfather clock on the wall.

He felt like he wanted to go outside and pound something to work off the nervous energy, but that would take him away from his partner. The partner who laid dying in the other room because of such foolishness! The lacy curtain fluttered, guiding him to the open window. Outside, a handful of citizens wandered through the streets, feeling safe with Hatch lying in the funeral parlor.

The news was all over Laramie. Funny how bad news travels so fast, he mused. Releasing an irritated sigh, he resumed his anxious pacing. The familiar weight of the gun in his holster taunted him. If only he’d been a little faster…

Doctor Hansen opened the door to the sick room. In a flash, he left the window.

“Doc?” The Doctor’s brown eyes looked up at him in defeat. His stomach dropped to his toes and he staggered backwards for a chair. “Doc, please!”

“It’s not what you think son.” Finding himself pushed into an empty chair, Jess looked up at the Physician. “Slim is very lucky the bullet hit where it did. It’s touch and go for the moment, but he’s strong. I expect him to pull through.”

The wave of relief that washed over him was short lived as he was forced to continue. “What about Mort, is he-?”

“Mort’s fine son. He fared better than Slim did where bullets are concerned. The smallest movement saved his life.” Doctor Hansen pulled a tin star from his front pocket. “Mort wanted me to give this to you. He said it’s up to you now to protect Laramie until he’s better.”

Jess clenched the badge tightly in his hand, fighting the urge to curse. “Up to me now!” His voice rose to a shout. “It’s up to me alright! Do you have any idea why Hatch drew on me today! Don’t worry Doc, I’ll spare you the trouble of figuring it out! He drew because  _ I _ called him out!  _ I _ pushed him into that fight and then turned my back!” He scoffed and said quietly. “I turned my back and then made my friends pay the price, now they’re in there fighting for their lives because of me. I’m in here without a single scratch! That doesn’t seem right Doc, it doesn’t-”

Jess looked down at the tin star in his hand and threw it on the floor. It meant nothing to him, nothing. For all he cared it could be taken out back and used for target practice.

“Son.” Doctor Hansen took Jess by the arms. “Son, look at me. You may be a lot of things, but you never intended Hatch would draw like he did. You were mad, but you checked your temper boy!” Doc scooped up the tin star and held it so it could be seen. “Mort gave this to you. This star is the only thing that protects Laramie rain or shine. If you throw this away, you’ll be letting any man who walks into Laramie hurt as many people as he wants. Maybe you’re guilty for pushing Hatch like you did, but put aside your self pity and do something about it! If you don’t, what’s the point in having laws if no one’s man enough to enforce them?”

Jess fanned his fingers through his hair and hung his head. There was no sugar coating it, he’d killed men before. Some men were evil and took joy in bringing suffering to innocent lives, and others, others were just a little misguided. Taking a life before had never mixed him up like Hatch had.

“You have a chance to make things right. I can’t make this decision for you, but I hope you make the right one for all our sakes.” Doc Hansen tossed the badge onto the nearest table. “You can see them if you want to, but they’re both still unconscious. I suggest you decide what to do before they wake up.”

The Doctor’s receding footsteps quickly left him alone. Leaving the star on the table, Jess pushed open the door to where Mort and Slim lay. Softly, he padded into the room and sank into the chair beside Slim. His partner rested on the stark white pillows and sheets. It was startling how Slim nearly sank right into the linens as he breathed in and out. All too soon his mind transported him back out on the street.

_ As he turned his back to Hatch, his heart pounded. This wasn’t the smartest thing to do, but it was better than waiting for Hatch to make his own move and potentially hurt somebody. Scattered on the opposite street Mort and Slim moved restlessly. He was being utterly reckless, all he could hope was Slim and Mort would forgive him. _

_ Forcing himself to settle, he breathed out and flexed his gun hand in tiny increments. Using the remainder of his control he waited for Hatch to make his move. _

_ He felt rather than heard Hatch pull the gun from the holster. In a flurry of movement he propelled himself forward, needing to find a safe place to take cover. In the recesses of his senses, he heard the boom of gunfire. Finding a safe place, he knelt and removed the trigger loop from the revolver before freeing it from the holster. _

_ Pulling the trigger back, his heart stopped as he saw Slim get hit and fall to the ground. The two yards separating him from his partner felt like miles. Belaying the possible consequences, he released a spray of bullets in Hatch’s direction. Jess ducked as Hatch returned fire between Mort and where he crouched. Then Mort fell to the ground. _

_ “No!” Jess disregarded his own safely and rushed out onto the street. Nothing would stop him from making Hatch pay for what he’d done. _

_ Lining up to fire at Hatch, he halted when a shot sounded that didn’t come from him. In response to the anonymous gunfire Hatch crashed into the dirt. Behind Hatch stood Scott Matthews with a newly fired gun in his hand. Scott stalked to where the black clad man was stretched out on the street, dead. _

_ “Jess? You alright?” Slipping the gun back into the holster, Jess looked at the storekeeper in shock. _

_ “Scott, why?” Scott Matthews gazed at the gun in his hand sadly. _

_ “He was my brother and I...I had to.” Finally Jess understood. _

_ “I understand. Help me get Slim and Mort to the Doctor will you?” _

Blinking away the memory, Jess looked down at his sleeping partner. Scott had killed his own brother to save his miserable life. Slim steadily breathed in and out.

Jess thought back to what Doctor Hansen had lectured him about. It was easy to walk away from the accountability of what happened. Any fool could hide from the truth, but few could live up to it. Gunfighters like Hatch notched their guns as a sort of trophy to symbolize every kill, remembering it for some sick reason.

As a young boy starting off with a gun, he’d promised himself he wouldn’t notch his gun. It was his way to ensure he controlled the gun rather than letting the gun control him. Pushing to his feet, Jess walked out of the sick room and stopped at the end table which held Mort’s tin badge.

He picked it up and ran his fingers over the polished face. The badge carried a lot of weight. Then, he pinned it to his vest and stepped onto the boardwalk. Laramie needed a Sheriff and he’d do his best to protect it until Mort was able to. When that day came, it was high time he took Mike fishing like he’d promised. He needed a vacation to sort things out.


End file.
